Second Time Around
by Swanseajill
Summary: Dean is seriously injured in a hunt, bringing back memories for Sam of a similar occasion that took place over two years ago. The boys are forced to deal with some long buried truths. Characters: Dean, Sam and John
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Second Time Around  
**Author:** Swanseajill  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, John, Pastor Jim  
Pa**iring:** None  
**Rating:** PG-13 (genfic)  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own them, making no money from them  
**Summary:** Dean is seriously injured in a hunt, bringing back memories for Sam of a similar occasion that took place over two years ago. The boys are forced to deal with some long buried truths.

**Author's Notes:** This fic was completed for a challenge on LiveJournal, in response to the prompt, 'Dean gets critically injured during the Stanford years and someone (Pastor Jim or maybe even John) brings Sam to see him.' For the purpose of this story, I'm assuming that Sam was at Stanford for just over three years before the pilot.

Grateful thanks to stealthyone for the usual fantastic beta job and for taking so much time to help me iron out some inconsistencies. You rock.

* * *

**Illinois, April 2006**

The sky was a clear, cerulean blue, and the spring sun beat down valiantly, gently warming the bare skin of his forearms. The air hung heavy with a heady scent from a pair of lilac trees to one side. In the very center of the courtyard, enclosed by a flowerbed awash with spring flowers, a majestic maple tree stood proud, its new leaves shiny and bright.

It should have been a scene of peace and tranquility.

For Sam Winchester, it was a painful reminder of another time, another place.

The scene was not quite the same as the one in his memories. Then, it was October at a different hospital courtyard, and the maple tree's leaves were a vibrant, dazzling red. But the most important fact was the same. Now, as then, he sat on a wooden bench while his brother lay critically ill in a bed a scant hundred yards away.

Sam wearily ran a hand through already unruly hair. This shouldn't be happening. He shouldn't be sitting here again, wondering if Dean was going to make it through the night. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Because this time, he'd done everything right.

He closed aching eyes, and the image of the maple tree morphed into another tree in the height of its autumn glory two and a half years ago…

- - - - -

**Stanford, October 2003 **

Sam pushed his chair away from the desk and stretched his aching back until cartilage cracked. It was barely 11 a.m., but he'd already been hunched over his laptop, several hefty tomes beside him on the desk, for more than three hours. He needed a break.

He walked to the window. It was open a crack, and he pushed it open a little wider and stuck his head out. It was a perfect October day, the sky an uninterrupted canvass of blue, highlighting the valiant sun, shining brightly in a stubborn attempt to deny the approach of autumn. But the strength of its rays failed to block out the nip in the air and Sam, in his thin T-shirt, shivered at the sudden chill.

He looked down at the quadrangle two floors below. A group of female students sauntered by, clearly in high spirits, carefree laughter floating upwards. Two professors passed them, deep in conversation, and a group of sweatpants-clad seniors jogged off in the opposite direction.

Stanford, he told himself at frequent intervals, was everything he had hoped it would be. His studies were challenging but rewarding, he spent his days with other students who actually wanted to learn and he'd made a few very good friends. Most of the time, he felt like a normal person.

If his thoughts sometimes drifted to his former life, causing him to stop short and wonder if he was fooling himself, if he would always be an outsider pretending to fit in – well, that was only to be expected. And if he sometimes caught himself unconsciously scanning the local newspaper for any story that might be supernatural in origin – well, that was only natural, after so many years of conditioning. It would take time to throw off fifteen years of instilled habits and training.

One thing he was sure of. He was born for _this_ life.

He didn't miss hunting, and he certainly didn't miss the arguments with his father that had become a daily occurrence in the weeks before his departure for college over a year ago.

His father. John Winchester: expert hunter and prize bastard. Sam's feelings towards his father were volatile at best, a mixture of resentment, love and frustration. Sometimes, just sometimes, those feelings flared into something akin to hatred. Hatred for the way Dad had forced an unnatural and bizarre lifestyle on his sons.

Sam had never asked for that life and constantly railed against it, and he knew how much that pissed his father off. Oh, he'd got quite good at the job, the _family business_ – it would have been difficult not to, with the amount of training he'd been forced to endure – but he'd never thrown himself into it or enjoyed it. Unlike his brother. Dean had embraced the life, following his father's orders like a good little soldier, never questioning, never complaining. The perfect son.

Dean.

Deep in thought, a loud rap on the door startled him. He glanced at his watch. 11:10. Probably Jem or Roger, bored with study already and eager to lure him out for a late breakfast.

He strolled over to the door, steeling himself to be strong-willed because he really needed to finish that paper, but smiling nonetheless.

When he opened the door, he took a step back in shock, smile fading. The person standing there wasn't Jem or Roger, but one of the last people he would have expected to turn up at Stanford.

Pastor Jim Murphy had been a prominent figure in the Winchesters' lives while Sam had been growing up, and he was the closest to an uncle Sam had ever come. Jim was also the only pastor Sam had met who had a hidden arsenal of demon-hunting paraphernalia hidden in his church study. That made him a cool dude in the eyes of a young boy.

Sam would have been pleased to see him, but Stanford was almost 2,000 miles from Jim's home in Blue Earth, Minnesota, and there could only be one reason for his presence here.

A shiver of fear ran down Sam's spine as he studied the older man's serious expression.

"What is it? What's happened?" he demanded, the possibilities already whirling around in his mind.

Jim's worried features softened in what looked alarmingly like compassion. "Hello, Sam. It's good to see you, son. May I come in for a moment?"

"Sure." Sam stood aside, and Jim walked a few paces into the room before turning to face him.

"It's Dean," he said without preamble. "He got hurt in a hunt a few days ago. Chupacabra took a chunk out of his leg. The wound got infected and …" He paused, looked away for a moment and then back, steadily holding Sam's eyes. "Your brother's very sick, Sam. I think… you need to come and be with him."

Oh, God. His greatest fear had become reality – that Dean would get hurt because he wasn't there to watch Dean's back. He'd always managed to rationalize the fear away. Dean, of all people, was more than capable of looking after himself, and anyway, Dad was still there to look out for him. But now…

His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. "How sick is he?"

Jim hesitated, as if searching for the right words. Sam's fear grew.

"Please, just tell me the truth."

"The chupacabra took a chunk out of his calf. The wound isn't too bad, but it's badly infected, and the infection's spreading fast. They're pumping high-strength antibiotics into him, but so far nothing seems to be working. They said…"

Sam felt a chill go through his heart. "They said what?"

"They said that if they can't get the infection under control… they might…"

"They might _what_?"

"Sam, they might have to take his leg."

No. _No_. Not that. Anything but that. Sam shook his head in denial. "They can't. Dean would rather die than lose his leg, you knowthat!"

Jim looked at him, sympathy and compassion spreading across his features. "I'm sorry, Sam. But it's better than losing his life, right?"

"There has to be something they can do! Where? Where is he?"

"In a hospital in San Luis Obispo. I'll drive you down as soon as you're ready."

California. Dad and Dean were in California, and he hadn't even known. San Luis Obispo was less than a four-hour drive. Sam had questions, lots of them, but they could wait. His only thought was to get to his brother as quickly as possible. He nodded. "Let me get some things together."

Sam rifled frantically through drawers, picked out some random items of clothing and threw them into a bag. He snagged his shaving kit and toothbrush from the bathroom and tossed them in, as well. Then he scribbled a note for his roommate, saying that his brother had called unexpectedly and he'd gone to spend the weekend with him. It wasn't too far from the truth.

He powered down his laptop and, after a moment's hesitation, left it where it was. Then he nodded to Jim. "Let's go."

He was ready to hit the road, but he wasn't sure he was ready to face what he might find at the end of the journey.

- - - - -

Once on the road in Jim's battered old Ford, Sam turned to the older man.

"Do you know how it happened?"

Jim glanced across at him. "I don't know the details, Sam, I wasn't there. Your dad called around five days ago. An old friend of ours, an ex-Marine buddy, has a farm near San Luis. He'd been having trouble – livestock dying, drained of blood. John suspected a chupacabra. I told your dad to wait for me, that I'd fly out as soon as I could, but one of Chuck's neighbors had been killed – literally torn apart – and John decided there wasn't time to wait. He was afraid someone else would get hurt. So he and Dean went to check it out.

"I got a flight three days later, and it had just landed when I got the call from John that Dean was in the hospital. I went down there and… well, John was with him, and I thought the best way I could help was to come and fetch you."

"But… what actually happened?"

"I don't know. There wasn't time for much conversation. You'll have to ask your dad for the details, Sam."

Great.

Jim must have sensed his unease. "Things still bad between you and your dad?"

Sam shrugged. "We haven't spoken for over a year, so I guess you could say things are bad, yeah."

"He still mad at you for leaving?"

"I guess," Sam replied shortly. He didn't want to talk about it. Anyway, it wasn't important now. Dean was all that mattered. He turned his head to look out of the window, swallowing against a sudden lump in his throat.

After a moment, Jim said quietly, "Dean's strong, Sam, and he's a fighter. We mustn't give up hope. I'm praying for a miracle, and you should, too."

Sam wasn't sure he believed in miracles, but as conversation waned, he found himself praying anyway. If the doctors couldn't help Dean, God was his only hope.

- - - - -

Sam hated hospitals. He hated everything about them, from the all-pervading and pungent smell of antiseptic to the supposedly soothing but boringly uniform magnolia on the walls and the soulless waiting rooms with the torture devices they called chairs.

St. Mary and St. George was no different than any of the other hospitals he'd spent time in, sometimes as a patient, but more often as a helpless observer on the countless occasions his dad or brother had been hurt.

As soon as the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, he marched down the corridor towards the waiting room and immediately spotted his father. Dad was sitting in a red plastic chair, arms folded and legs stretched out before him, staring into the distance.

He hadn't changed. Hair slightly longer, beard a little less well kempt, perhaps, but his features were arranged in the frown Sam knew so well.

Sam hesitated for a moment, mentally preparing himself for his first meeting with his father in over a year, then set his jaw and strode forward. Hearing someone approach, Dad looked up, and Sam was confused to see his features transform into wary surprise as he sprang to his feet.

"Sam! What the hell are you doing here?"

It was Sam's turn to be caught off guard. Why should Dad be surprised to see him? He'd sent for him, hadn't he?

The awful truth dawned. Dad hadn't sent for him. His brother was sick, maybe about to lose his leg, and Dad hadn't sent for him. He hadn't even bothered to pick up the phone to let him know what had happened.

"John," Pastor Jim said softly.

Sam hadn't noticed Pastor Jim come up behind him.

"What the hell, Jim?" Dad growled.

"He had to be told, John. Dean's his brother."

John glowered. "This wasn't your business, Jim. You had no right, and there was no need. Dean's gonna be just fine."

"John—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam demanded, cutting harshly across Jim's conciliatory voice.

John turned his attention to his youngest. "Don't take that tone with me, son," he said sharply.

Sam shook his head. "You're unbelievable. Dean's dying, and you don't even bother to call?"

"Your brother's not dying." Dad glanced at his friend. "Jim, what have you been telling him?"

"The truth, John," Jim said, calm in the face of the famous Winchester temper. "Dean's not dying, but his condition is serious. You have to face that."

"He's right, Dad," Sam said tightly. "You should have told me."

Father and son faced each other. Sam felt the familiar tightening in his stomach as he confronted his father's anger. It had been over a year, but he remembered the day he'd walked out of the house for the last time, and it had felt just like this.

"John, how's Dean doing?" Jim asked, quiet enquiry breaking through the tension that filled the air.

Sam felt ashamed. He'd allowed anger with his father to so cloud his mind that he hadn't even thought to ask about Dean, the whole reason he was here.

John ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time Sam saw the strain and worry in his face. "There's no change. They're still monitoring him every hour."

A door opened across the corridor, and a nurse in pale green scrubs came out. She glanced around the waiting area, then walked over, smiling at Dad. "You can go back in now, Mr. Waterman."

"Thank you. Is he… is there any improvement?"

After a slight hesitation, she said, "The infection's showing no sign of abating, but it's too soon to lose hope. There's still time for the antibiotics to kick in."

Dad nodded and gestured to Sam. "This is Dean's brother. Is it okay if he comes in with me?"

She smiled at Sam. "Yes, of course. I'm sure it will help Dean to have his family around him."

She walked away, and Dad turned to Sam. "Sam," he said awkwardly, clearing his throat. "When you see your brother, he's… pretty out of it. He probably won't even recognize you. The fever and the drugs they have him on are making him pretty groggy. Just…."

He didn't finish. Sam swallowed and nodded, the previous argument forgotten.

Jim turned to Dad. "John, why don't you and I go and get a coffee? Let Sam spend some time alone with Dean."

John hesitated, his expression unreadable, and then said, "Yeah, okay. We'll be back in a while. You come get me if there's any change, okay, Sam?"

Sam nodded absently, his thoughts already with his brother.

- - - - -

Sam opened the door and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind himself.

The room was small, with space for little more than the one bed with a chair placed on either side. He approached it cautiously, swallowing against his fear.

When he looked at the figure lying there, an IV protruding from each arm, eyes closed, face flushed, for a wild moment he thought there'd been some mistake.

There was nothing insignificant about Dean Winchester. At 6'1" he was over average height, and what he lacked in bulk, he made up for in strength and agility. True, Sam topped him by several inches, but he had never grown out of thinking of Dean as the bigger of the two of them. It wasn't just that Dean was older. It was the fact that he had _presence_. When he entered a room, people took notice.

But the still form in the bed looked small, frail, and so very ill.

"Oh, God, Dean. What's happened to you?" Sam said softly as he pulled a chair close to the bed and sank down into it.

There was no response. Dean seemed to be asleep, but he was restless, tossing and turning. Sam reached out and closed a hand around Dean's wrist, wincing at the heat radiating from his skin but grateful for the contact.

Going to college and leaving Dean behind had been the hardest thing Sam had ever done.

When he'd dropped his bombshell, he'd expected Dean to try to talk him out of it, but Dean had remained silent throughout Sam's subsequent arguments and heated shouting matches with Dad. In fact, Sam had been a little hurt that Dean seemed so indifferent, wondering if maybe his brother was looking forward to hunting with Dad, just the two of them. Then, on the final day when he'd walked out of the house, Dad's shout of _If you leave, don't bother to come back_ ringing in his ears, he'd looked back. Dean was standing there, silent, face blank except for the look of total desolation in his eyes. And Sam had wondered if he'd got it totally wrong, if he was somehow betraying his brother by leaving.

By then it had been too late.

If his leaving had hurt Dean, Dean gave no indication of it over the next year. They kept in touch intermittently. Sam texted Dean once a week, and the reply always came in a voicemail message at some unearthly time of night. Sometimes, Sam got postcards from outlandish places, with ridiculous and often rude pictures on the front and a crude and uninformative message like, _Hunting giant rabbits in Shitholesville Arizona. The rabbits are tough but the girls are easy_.

Over the past few months, the contact between them had become sporadic. A summer job had kept Sam busy, and the last time they'd spoken, the conversation had been awkward and stilted. For Sam, the more he immersed himself in college life, the more distant the hunting life began to feel, and the brothers had less and less to say to each other. He hated the gulf that was growing between them, but he couldn't think of a way to fix it.

Dean shifted position, tossing his head to one side and muttering something incoherent.

Sam tightened his grip on Dean's wrist and fought back the panic threatening to overwhelm him. It wasn't that Dean hadn't been hurt before. Dean had been hurt plenty of times – too many times. But this – he couldn't think of a time when he'd seen his brother so weak, so vulnerable. It rocked his view of the world.

As he sat there helplessly watching his brother locked in a fevered dream, he finally acknowledged, after a year of denial, how desperately he missed Dean. Despite their differences, despite the bickering, Dean was the only person who knew him through and through and with whom he could be himself. Usually, he could push it to one side, but from time to time something – usually the most bizarre thing – would remind him of Dean. A mega-sized burger, or the deep roar of a car engine. Strong black coffee and the sports page of the newspaper. An attractive girl or the sound of a pool cue hitting the ball. And then his heart would ache for the bond between them that was breaking, slowly but surely.

Dean was getting more and more agitated, his incoherent muttering coalescing into words and broken sentences. "No… Dad! Dad, it's… oh, God, it's… Sammy! Sammy, run!"

Sam leaned forward. "Dean! Dean, it's okay. It's okay, man." Dean's right hand fisted tightly around the bed sheet, and Sam shifted his own hand from Dean's wrist, closing it around the tensely curled fist. "It's okay."

"No… Sammy! Look out!"

Sam stroked a thumb across Dean's fingers, hoping the contact would soothe him. "Dean, I'm right here, and I'm safe. You saved me, okay. You saved me. Everything's all right."

Dean continued to toss and turn, but his grip on the sheet weakened, and the note of panic in his voice subsided.

Sam blew out a deep breath. By all rights, Dean should be having nightmares about the chupacabra that had attacked him. But no, even subconsciously he was worrying about Sam, as he'd always done, all his life.

Sam sat there holding his brother's hand, thinking of Dean's reaction if he woke up and saw it. He'd call Sam an emo-chick and snatch his hand away. But Sam didn't care. He needed the connection right now, and he sensed that Dean did, too.

He sat like that for over an hour until a nurse arrived and suggested that he take a break while she did her routine checks.

Reluctantly, he agreed.

- - - - -

Sam glanced at his watch as he walked out of Dean's room into the corridor, stretching muscles stiff with sitting for so long in that small, cramped chair. 5:30 p.m. He walked across to the waiting room, wondering where Jim and his dad had got to. He spied a coffee machine in one corner and fished out the required quarter, then pushed the button for coffee, black. It would probably taste terrible, but he needed a caffeine fix right now.

"Sam?"

The gruff voice startled him, and he jumped, black liquid slopping out of the plastic cup and narrowly missing him as it landed with a plop on the floor. He hadn't heard Dad come up behind him.

He turned around. "Hey."

"How is he?" Dad asked gruffly, the lines on his face deepening in a worried frown.

Sam chewed on his lower lip. "He's really out of it, like you said. He just… he looks so sick, Dad."

"He'll be fine, son. Your brother's been through worse and he's tough, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed, although he didn't feel too confident that being tough would be enough this time.

Dad held out a quarter. "Want to get me one of those?"

Silently Sam took the quarter, filled aniother cup and handed it to his father.

"Thanks. Mind if I sit a while?"

Sam's stomach clenched. He didn't want to deal with Dad right now, but he also didn't have the energy to argue. He shrugged. "It's a free country."

Dad frowned, went to say something, and then seemed to think better of it and sat down.

Sam sat, too, leaving a chair's space between them. He knew his words had sounded cold. He was still angry that Dad hadn't called to tell him about Dean. Still, picking a fight with Dad was a bad idea. This wasn't about him and Dad. It was about Dean.

Dad was silent and Sam glanced across at him, noting the red-rimmed eyes and gaunt lines that criss-crossed his face. He looked exhausted, and for the first time Sam stopped to think what this was doing to him. He loved Dean, Sam knew that. He loved him and he was proud of him, and seeing him so sick must be killing him.

"How did it happen?" he asked, his tone warmer this time. "Pastor Jim told me it was on a hunt, but he didn't tell me how Dean got hurt."

Dad took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "How much did Jim tell you?"

"He told me you and Dean were hunting a chupacabra for an old friend of yours, that you went in without waiting for him because you thought you were running out of time."

Dad nodded. "I was afraid to leave it another night. The chupacabra was getting bolder, hunting at dusk, not just in total darkness, and it had already killed one man. Chuck thought he'd spotted it in some woodland bordering his farm, so me and Dean headed out there. We had a lot of lot of ground to cover, and it was getting late, so we split up."

_What_? "You split up? What happened to your golden rule about Dean -- and me -- never hunting alone?"

"Rule didn't apply," Dad retorted sharply. "Anyway, we had no choice. I headed east, Dean west. After about half an hour, I spotted it. I called Dean, told him to head my way. I was tracking it when I heard him yell. Turned out there were three of them. The one I was tracking, and two others that were tracking Dean."

Sam bit his lip. "He faced down two of them? _On his own_?"

Dad nodded. "He got one of them with his first shot, but the second took a bite out of his leg before he took it down. He finished the job, though; they were dead meat by the time I got there."

Sam noted the pride in Dad's voice, but he didn't care that Dean's hunting skills had kept him alive – he'd still come out of the attack badly hurt, and that was all that mattered to Sam.

"I don't believe you," he said heatedly. "You're telling me Dean got hurt because you weren't there to watch his back?"

Dad held his eyes and Sam read both guilt and defiance in his gaze. "If that's the way you want to look at it."

Sam sprang to his feet. "Damn right that's the way I want to look at it!"

"We had reliable intel that it was just one beast." Dad spoke through gritted teeth, clearly trying to hold on to his temper in the face of his son's hostility. "There was no way of knowing there were three of them – they usually hunt solo. I made a judgment call."

"You made a mistake!" Sam spat out. "This is your fault, Dad!"

His father jumped up then, anger darkening his features, and stepped forward until he was nose to nose with his son. "Just where do you get off telling me what's my fault? You're the one who cleared off to college, left Dean and I a man short."

Sam felt the accusation like a blow to the stomach. However much he went off on his father, however much Dad might have screwed up, the accusation rang true. If he'd been there, Dean would have had someone watching his back.

Father and son glared at each other in the awkward silence that followed. After a moment, Dad's features softened a little. "Sam…"

Sam couldn't take any more. "Just go to hell!" he snapped, blinking back traitorous moisture from his eyes.

He turned and stormed off, bowled into an orderly coming in the other direction, muttered an apology at the man's angry cry, and slammed open the door to the stairwell. He didn't know nor care where he was going. He just wanted to get as far away from his father as possible.

He ran down flight after flight of stairs, emerged on the first floor, then walked randomly down corridors until he came to a set of double doors leading out into a courtyard at the heart of the hospital.

He stepped out into a tiny piece of paradise. The quadrangle was large, with sturdy wooden benches around the sides overlooking landscaped flowerbeds, awash with autumn color. In the center stood a majestic maple tree, its leaves flaming crimson. Quiet and calm, deliberately so, probably. A hospital-designed safe haven.

Sam flopped down on a bench, breathing heavily. He sat back, shut his eyes, and tried to close his mind to the confusion and pain.

After a while, he heard soft footsteps, and someone sat down beside him. He was almost afraid to open his eyes in case it was his father. He couldn't face that right now.

"Sam?"

Not his father. Pastor Jim. Sam opened his eyes, alarm shooting through him. "Is something wrong? Is Dean…?"

Jim shook his head. "No, Sam," he said quickly. "Dean's holding his own. At the moment, it's you I'm worried about."

Sam inhaled deeply, then blew out a long breath. His nerves were in shreds, and his gut twisted in a constant knot of tension. He mustered a small smile for Pastor Jim's benefit. "No need. I'm fine."

"I know what went down between you and your father," Jim went on quietly.

"Yeah?" Sam said, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. "You know what? That was nothing. You should have been a fly on the wall for some of our fights before I went to Stanford."

"I know you two don't always see eye to eye--"

"He thinks I betrayed him by leaving." e thinks

Jim frowned. "He say that?"

Sam shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. "Not in so many words, but I know it's what he thinks. I let him down by wanting my own life." The words sounded bitter even to his own ears.

"Is that what you believe?"

Sam looked down, absently picking at a loose thread in his jeans. "I didn't, but now… I should have been there. If I'd been there, I'd have had Dean's back. He wouldn't have got hurt."

"You can't know that," Jim said. "It wasn't your fault, Sam."

"But if I'd been there…"

"Dean might still have been hurt," Jim said firmly. "Or it might have been you. Look at me, Sam."

Reluctantly, Sam looked up into Pastor Jim's sincere eyes.

"There's no point in second-guessing, Sam. It was no one's fault. It's a dangerous job, you know that."

"I know, but…" He hesitated, reluctant to voice the thoughts that had been running through his head. "I've been thinking that maybe… maybe I should come back home."

Pastor Jim raised an eyebrow. "To hunt? Is that what you want?"

"No. But I don't want to lose my brother, either. Maybe I don't have a choice."

Jim shook his head. "There's always a choice, Sam. There's nothing wrong with wanting to live your own life, your own way. Your dad and Dean have made their choices. But if hunting isn't for you, then you should follow your instincts."

"Yeah?" Sam laughed. "Tell that to my dad."

Jim sighed. "Sam, your dad – he has a bit of a one-track mind sometimes. Gets set on one way of thinking, and there's no shifting him. Been lots of times in the past when I wanted to shake some sense into him."

Sam snorted. He knew the feeling. He also knew that Jim and his dad went back a long, long way. He'd heard some pretty wild stories when he was a kid.

"But he always comes around in the end," Jim went on. "Give him time, Sam. Try to see it from his point of view."

Sam snorted again. "His point of view? He's obsessed. He's wasted his life on this ridiculous quest to find the demon. He's wasting Dean's life, and he wants to ruin mine, too. He doesn't care what I want or what I need."

"He cares. He just finds it hard to express it." Jim was silent for a moment. "Look, Sam, your father loves you, even if he's not very good at showing it. He loves both of you boys. I've known him a long time – I've known _you_ since you were a year old – and I can promise you that's the truth."

Sam sighed. "I guess he does love me in his own way, but that doesn't mean he knows what's best for me."

"You're right. Going to Stanford – that was your decision as an adult, and it was your decision to make. But you can't blame him for worrying about letting you go."

Sam was startled. "Worrying? Why would he worry about it?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Why do you think?"

"I think he didn't want me to go because he thinks college is a waste of time. He thinks I'm letting him down by choosing it, when I should be showing some family loyalty and continuing this stupid hunt for the demon."

"I'm sure that's part of it," Jim admitted. "I told you your father can sometimes have a one-track mind. But think about it. Hasn't it occurred to you that one of the reasons he wants to keep you boys close is because he's afraid something might happen to you?"

Sam frowned. He'd never thought about it like that. He'd been so sure he knew his dad's mind that it had never occurred to him there might have been some other reason.

He was still pondering this new idea when Jim stood up, patting him on the shoulder. "You'll work it out. But for now, you two need to get along, for Dean's sake. How's he going to feel when he wakes up and finds you guys bickering at his bedside?"

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "Dean hates it when we fight," he admitted.

Jim smiled. "Then don't fight. Now, why don't you go on back? John spoke to the nurse, and she said you and John could stay with Dean tonight." He waved a hand vaguely at the far side of the courtyard. "I'm going to the chapel. Best way I can help Dean now is to pray for him."

- - - - -

A/N: I'll be posting the second and final chapter tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Second Time Around

by Swanseajill

See part one for summary and notes.

* * *

Part Two 

Sam walked in through the door of Dean's room and saw his father sitting at the far side of the bed. Dad looked up, his expression subdued. "Sam," he said gruffly.

Sam could sense he wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words. Dad had never been good at expressing his feelings, and Sam wasn't about to make it easy for him. He focused instead on what was important. "How is he?"

John looked at him hard for a long moment, and then glanced down at his eldest son. "He doesn't seem any better, but he's less restless than before."

Sam sat down and hesitantly reached out a hand to touch Dean's cheek. Still hot – dangerously hot. Sam could feel the heat radiating off his body. He was quiet now, uncharacteristically still, and Sam found himself wishing for the previous delirium – at least it was a sign that Dean was still alive.

"What did the doctor say?" he asked. "About… how long…"

John looked down at his hands, and his voice was rough when he answered. "They said that if there's no improvement by morning, they'll have to make a decision about…."

"About taking his leg?" Sam finished quietly.

John nodded. "But that's not gonna happen," he said firmly. "Dean's a Winchester, and Winchesters are fighters, right?"

"Right," Sam said automatically, knowing agreement was expected, but as he sat down in the other chair a stone of fear settled in his stomach.

This was going to be one of the longest nights of his life.

- - - - -

Sam woke abruptly with a sense of disorientation. His back and neck were stiff, and his head felt thick and stuffy. He opened itchy, gritty eyes and tried to focus.

Magnolia walls and an all-pervading clinical smell. The torture trap he found himself wedged into was pulled up close beside a bed where a figure lay, very still, a crisp white sheet pulled up to its neck. Memory returned in a rush at the same time as the sickening anxiety.

How could he have gone to sleep? He'd been out a while, he figured, as there was a blanket draped over him and sun shining in through the window.

His father sat on the other side of Dean's bed, hunched forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees and chin balanced on his clasped hands. Sam couldn't see his eyes and wasn't sure if his posture was one of despair or simple exhaustion.

"Dad?" he whispered. "How is he?"

His father looked up. He looked rough, his eyes red-rimmed, and Sam's heart lurched in fear. Then Dad smiled, and the fear melted into hope.

"Fever broke a little while ago," Dad said quietly. "The doctor just came in and took a look at him. Said the antibiotics have finally kicked in. His temperature's down to 102, and the infection's starting to clear. The doc said he's out of danger."

_Thank God_. Sam leaned forward, studying Dean closely. He was pale, but the red spots of fever had receded, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

He looked up at his father, barely suppressed resentment returning. "You didn't wake me."

Dad's smile faded. "There was no need."

"You should have woken me."

Dad's lips thinned in a hard line, and he stood up abruptly. "I'm going for coffee."

Sam gritted his teeth. "Fine."

Left alone with his brother, Sam tried to swallow the lingering fear. If the doctor said Dean was out of danger, he must be right, but Dean still looked so ill, and Sam knew he wouldn't be sure until Dean woke up and talked to him.

As if he'd sensed Sam's anxiety, Dean's eyelids flickered.

Sam scooted closer. "Dean?" he said softly. "That's it bro, it's time to wake up."

Dean's eyelids opened slowly, and confused green eyes fixed on Sam, half-focused. "Sammy?"

The word was slurred and gruff, but it was the best thing Sam had ever heard. He smiled. "Yeah, it's me. I'm here."

"Where … here?"

"You're in the hospital, but you're gonna be fine."

"'Kay." Dean was clearly still out of it, but that was only to be expected. His eyes drifted shut, then opened again half-mast. "Were you here… before?"

Sam nodded. "I've been here all night. You've been pretty out of it, though."

"Why … here? Should be … school…"

"You're hurt, Dean. School can wait."

"Be … fine. Didn't need … come."

Sam felt a lump form in his throat. "Yeah, Dean, I did. You're my brother. I'll always come."

"You… You're still a such a girl."

Sam laughed softly. "Guess I am. Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Mmm hmm."

Dean's eyes had already shut again, and within seconds, he was asleep.

Sam stayed where he was, just watching Dean breathe, thinking back to Pastor Jim's words. _You two need to get along, for Dean's sake. How's he going to feel when he wakes up and finds you guys bickering at his bedside_?

It could so easily have happened. He and Dad couldn't seem to spend five minutes in the room together without rubbing each other the wrong way. If Dean had seen them going at it … He shook his head, lips pressed together. The last thing Dean needed right now was to be stuck in the middle, again. To play peacekeeper when he should be focusing on getting better. And he would get better, thank God.

It was a damned good thing, Sam knew, that Dean hadn't lost his leg. Because if he had, Sam had already decided that he'd leave school and come home. There was no way Dad would be able to cope with the situation, even with the best of intentions. And it would have been a disaster, for all of them. He and Dad would have wound up constantly bickering, and it would have worn Dean down, fast.

Now, though, knowing that Dean was going to be all right, Sam knew what to do. He'd stay for as long as it took for Dean to get well, and then he'd go back to school, to his new life. Pastor Jim was right. He had to follow his instincts.

It would be for the best.

He sat with his sleeping brother for a little while longer and when Dean showed no sign of waking again soon, he got up and wandered out into the corridor, wondering where Dad had got to. He found him in conversation with Dean's doctor.

The doctor glanced at him as he joined them, and Sam caught the end of the conversation. "So yes, I think I can safely say that your son's going to be fine, Mr. Waterman. We'll keep him in for a couple more days, just to be on the safe side and to get some more antibiotics and fluids into him. He's a very fortunate young man. If we hadn't started treating that infection when we did…" His expression turned grave. "A word of advice, Mr. Waterman. From what I've seen, this isn't the first time your boy's been hurt on a hunting trip. Accident prone, is he?" The doctor paused and, when there was no response, continued with a disapproving humph. "Well, next time something like this happens, you bring him in straight away, all right?"

Dad stiffened, and his jaw clenched. But then he simply nodded.

Sam looked at him, confused, as the doctor walked away. "Dad? What did he mean?"

Dad looked away. "What about?"

"When he said, 'Next time, bring him in straight away'?"

Dad cleared his throat. "You know how it is, Sam. For us, hospital's always the last resort – it has to be. I cleaned and dressed the wound myself, and I didn't think it was that serious. When it became obvious that there was a problem, I brought Dean in."

Sam frowned and his jaw clenched. What had Dad been thinking? "How long, Dad? How long did you wait before you took him to the emergency room?"

"What does it matter?"

"_How long_?"

Dad's expression hardened at the accusatory tone. "A couple of days."

"A couple of days! Dad, they said… they came _this_ close to amputating his leg!" Sam cried, using his thumb and forefinger to illustrate his point. "And all because you waited two days! Why didn't you take him in right away?"

"I told you. I didn't think it was that serious."

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. It had never occurred to him to ask for the full story. He'd assumed that Dad had taken Dean straight to the hospital after the attack. But then with Dad, it didn't do to assume.

"It took you _two days_ to work it out?" he asked heatedly.

Dad hesitated and Sam thought he saw a flicker of shame in his eyes before his features stiffened. "The wound wasn't that deep, just needed a couple of stitches. Dean kept telling me he felt fine, it didn't hurt that much, so I went out again, tracked the third chupa to its lair, and shot it to hell. When I came back… Dean was burning up, and his leg was…"

Sam snorted. "You know Dean; he'll never admit he's in pain, not to you. He sees it as failing you if he doesn't just suck it up, like you always tell him to do. And you left him – you just left him on his own with an infected wound!"

"It wasn't like that," John said tightly.

"Really? Then tell me what it i was /i like, Dad, because I really want to know."

John's eyes glinted, and his mouth tightened. "That's enough, Sam. You've had your say, but you're out of line now."

Sam shook his head. He was shaking with anger. "No, _you're _out of line, and you're out of control. Dean almost lost his leg – his _leg_, Dad! He could have lost his _life_ – and all because you're so damned focused on the hunt you don't care about anything else."

"Are you trying to tell me I don't care about my own son?" John roared.

"Yeah, I guess I am!" Sam shouted.

Dad raised his hand, and Sam flinched back instinctively. But the threatened blow didn't land. Instead, Dad lowered his hand and spoke slowly, face white with anger, each word forced out between clenched teeth. "Sam, you made your choice. You're not part of this life any more. You have no right even to be here. Go back to school where you belong."

Sam set his jaw. "I'm not leaving Dean."

"Dean's gonna be fine. It'll be easier on him if you're not here when he wakes up."

Sam laughed bitterly. "You think you know what's best for Dean, what's best for me. You don't know anything. You never have."

"Just go, Sam. Get the hell out of here!" The words held a ring of finality.

Sam held his ground, but only for a moment, because it didn't take a genius to see what would happen if he stayed. No way could he and Dad be civil with each other right now, or anytime soon, for that matter, and Dean didn't deserve that.

Shaking with frustration and anger, Sam turned and strode down the corridor. He marched straight out of the hospital and onto the first bus that stopped outside the gate.

He didn't speak to his brother again for more than two years.

- - - - -

**Illinois, April 2006**

A bird landed on a branch of the maple, startling Sam out of his reverie.

He checked his watch and was surprised to find he'd sat here reminiscing for over an hour. He hadn't intended to stay for so long. Dean should be out of surgery any minute, and he wanted to be there when his brother woke up.

And this time, he had no intention of leaving.

- - - - -

One bullet had lodged between a couple of ribs, thankfully missing any vital organs, and the other had carved a deep furrow through the muscle of Dean's left calf. If shock and blood loss hadn't rendered Dean unconscious, Sam had no doubt that he'd have argued strongly against an immediate visit to the emergency room, ridiculous as that would have been. But he'd been in no position to complain, and Sam hadn't been about to take any chances, not with a bullet lodged in his brother's body.

He sat at Dean's bedside now, the doctor's reassurances ringing in his ears, waiting for Dean to wake up. They'd said that Dean would be fine. The surgeon had successfully removed the bullet from his side, and although the wound would be painful for some time, it should heal up quickly. The calf injury wasn't as bad as it had looked at the time, and should cause no future problems.

They'd told him Dean had been lucky. Sam knew they were right – a fraction to the right and the bullet could have killed him. But he couldn't help thinking that lucky would have been avoiding the bullet in the first place.

He was trying to forget the last time he'd sat like this at his brother's bedside, but it was difficult, with Dean looking as sick this time as he had then.

Dean stirred.

Sam straightened. "Dean?"

He waited patiently for a reply, which finally came in the faintest of whispers. "Sammy…"

Sam smiled in relief. "Hey. Welcome back. How're you feeling?"

Dean groaned in reply, his eyes still closed tightly.

"Dean?"

Dean pressed his lips together for a few seconds, then rested a hand against his stomach. His eyes widened a little and he groaned again. "Think… think I'm gonna hurl."

Sam hit the nurse's call button and grabbed a kidney dish from the table beside him. He'd been ready for this – Dean didn't react well to anesthetic. He put a supporting arm around Dean's back, helping him lean forward a little, careful not to put pressure on the wound.

There was little in Dean's stomach to bring up but bile, and Sam winced in sympathy as Dean dry-heaved, the movement obviously jarring the wound in his side. One hand was tightly clutching a handful of bed sheet, the other clamped painfully around Sam's wrist.

When he'd finished, Dean let go of Sam's wrist and slumped back, eyes closed, face chalk white, features screwed up in pain. A nurse bustled in, checked his vitals and told Sam not to worry, sickness after anesthetic was normal. She hit a button to pump morphine into Dean's system through the IV and showed Sam how Dean could administer it himself whenever he needed it.

"Make sure he isn't shy about using it," she said briskly. "He'll be in a lot of pain, and now isn't the time to be macho."

The morphine seemed to kick in almost immediately, and Dean visibly relaxed. His eyes finally opened half-mast. "Sammy?"

"Still here."

Dean peered at him with unfocused eyes. "Sammy?"

"Dean, it's okay. I'm right here."

Sam leaned a little closer, tempted to reach out and grasp Dean's hand, but unsure if Dean was still out of it enough not to pull away. He was surprised when Dean reached out first and latched onto his wrist again.

"You … sure you… you're … here?"

"I'm here, Dean," he said soothingly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Not… a dream?"

"Not a dream. Go back to sleep."

"Don't… don't go."

Startled by the naked fear in Dean's voice, Sam put his free hand over Dean's fingers and squeezed reassuringly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Dean's grip tightened. "Thought you were there… but you were just a dream…" His eyes drifted shut, but his hand remained firmly clasped around Sam's wrist.

Sam frowned. Clearly, Dean was confused, but there had been something desperate in those whispered words.

He waited until Dean had drifted back into sleep before relaxing a little and slouching back in his chair. He didn't attempt to reclaim his arm. Dean seemed so vulnerable right now, and he sensed that it was important to keep the physical contact between them.

Later, he resisted the well-intentioned nurse's suggestion that he go and get something to eat, and stayed right where he was for another three hours, until Dean stirred again. This time, Dean was clearly more aware. When his eyes opened, they focused immediately on Sam.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said quietly. "You really back with me this time?"

Dean frowned. He took a few moments to answer and when he did, his voice was quiet, but much stronger than before. "I guess. What happ… oh, crap. Possessed hunter."

Sam nodded. "Little tip – next time, don't dance around in the open making yourself a freakin' target, all right?"

That earned him a faint smile. "Yeah. Not one of my best plans. You okay?"

Of course he was okay, because as usual, Dean had taken the fall for him. Some things never changed. "I'm fine. So's the hunter. I took him down without hurting him too much, did the ritual. One more demon back in Hell."

"That's my boy. Haven't 'pletely lost your touch." Then he frowned, eyes widening as he glanced down. "Dude! You wanna tell me why we're holding hands?"

Sam flushed and snatched his hand away. "Man, you started it," he said, feeling idiotically defensive. "You locked onto my wrist and wouldn't let go."

"Yeah, right." Dean snorted, then winced. "Maybe in your warped little mind, Samantha." He started to pull himself upright and fell back with a gasp, eyes screwed shut, jaw hardening against the pain.

Sam put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy. You've got a big hole in your side; you don't want to be moving around too much."

"No kiddin'," Dean hissed through clenched teeth.

Sam watched him anxiously, feeling as helpless as he always did when witnessing his brother fighting pain. He reached out a hand toward the morphine drip. "Need something for the pain?"

Dean grunted, and Sam took that for a "Yes".

As before, the morphine kicked in quickly, and after a few moments Dean's featured relaxed. He sighed and opened his eyes again as he rolled his head towards Sam. "This sucks out loud."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"They got me on good stuff, though. Reckon it'll give me sweet dreams?"

"I hope not," Sam said dryly, knowing Dean's idea of a sweet dream. "Speaking of dreams – before, when you first woke up, you kept asking me if I was a dream."

Something flickered in Dean's eyes. "Yeah?" he said casually. "I don't remember."

"You seemed pretty upset."

"Dude, I was probably high on this stuff," Dean said casually. "You can't count that against me."

"Still…"

Dean studied Sam for a second, then looked away. "I think I'm gonna go back to sleep for a while."

While Sam could tell the statement was a diversionary tactic, Dean's eyes _were_ already drooping. Best to let the dream thing go. For now.

"Get some rest," Sam said softly. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Dean grunted something incoherent and was fast asleep within minutes.

- - - - -

Dean was released from the hospital three days later, under strict instructions to rest, and Sam intended to make sure he did what he was told for once, even if that meant tying him to the bed.

They were holed up in a more expensive hotel than usual. Sam wanted Dean to be comfortable while he healed up. The room had a wide-screen TV, a small kitchen area and mattresses without the usual lumps.

So far, there had been no need for desperate tactics to keep Dean from overdoing it. It was only 8 p.m., but Dean was clearly wiped out. A trip to the bathroom and back left him exhausted and white-lipped in pain -- so much so that he barely protested when Sam helped him back into bed, plumping up the pillows behind him. He leaned back with a sigh of relief.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, not even trying to hide his concern as he observed his brother's pinched features.

"Did you take your meds?"

"Yeah, Mom, I took my meds."

"Both the antibiotics and the painkillers?"

Dean raised an amused eyebrow. "I'm not an idiot, Sam. Now will you knock off the mother-hen routine?"

"Fine." Sam didn't care if Dean thought he was fussing. He was going to make sure his brother looked after himself. His eyes dropped to the large dressing covering Dean's left side, checking that it was still securely in place. Then he began to pull the sheet back to check the leg.

"Dude, what's wrong with you?" Dean smacked his arm away. "Could you _be _any more of a girl?"

Sam sat back and folded his arms defensively. "I just want to check your leg, make sure the wound isn't infected."

Dean looked at him strangely and then spoke slowly, as if addressing a child. "Sam, first, I've got a big hole in my side, but you don't seem too bothered about that. Second, I just got out of the hospital a few hours ago. Trust me, it isn't infected!"

"Well, excuse me for worrying, but the last time something took a chunk out of your leg, you almost lost it!" Sam snapped. So what if he was being paranoid? He had good reason.

Dean went still. "What did you say?"

"Look, I know it's irrational, but last time…" He paused, running a hand through his hair, frustrated that Dean didn't seem to get it. "It just… it scared the hell out of me, Dean."

Dean looked confused. "Dude, how do you know about that?"

It was Sam's turn to be confused. "How do I… What do you mean, how do I know? I was there!"

Dean shook his head. "You weren't there, Sammy. You were… you weren't there."

"I know, Dean," Sam said hesitantly. "And I'm sorry. I was wrong – I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed until you were well-- "

He paused. Dean was looking at him, wide-eyed. "Dean?"

"You should have _stayed_? You mean… you were really there?" A pause, then, "I thought you were a dream." The final words were barely a whisper, but they were enough to bring the truth crashing down on Sam. Dean's confused rambling three days ago suddenly made sense.

"You thought you'd just dreamed I was there?" He wanted to be very clear about this.

Dean looked away, but Sam could see his jaw working. Sam remembered the way Dean had latched onto his hand, holding on tightly as if afraid Sam would disappear. _Thought you were there… but you were just a dream…_ Shit.

"You were out of it, delirious," he explained. "I sat with you through the night, and in the morning, your fever was down. You woke up for a few minutes; I talked to you, man. Don't you remember?"

Dean looked back at him and frowned. "I remember waking up and feeling like crap. And I thought I remembered you being there, before, but you were gone. When Dad came in, he didn't mention you, so I–"

"Wait. Dad didn't tell you I was there with you?"

Dean shook his head.

"Damn him, Dean!" Sam jumped up as the anger against his father, always just simmering below the surface, flared. "Why didn't he tell you?"

Dean leaned forward, winced, and bit back a groan.

"Hey, take it easy – no fast movements, remember?"

Dean scowled, but allowed Sam to adjust the pillow to support his weight in a more upright position. "Sam, Dad must have had his reasons…"

"Don't you defend him! You know he should have told you." He couldn't bear the thought that Dean hadn't known he'd been there with him; maybe even thought he hadn't bothered to come at all.

"Sam--"

"And another thing. He should have told me you were sick in the first place."

Dean blinked. "Wait. You saying it wasn't Dad who told you I was sick?"

"Yeah. Nice, huh? You were so sick they were threatening to cut your freakin' leg off, and he didn't call."

"Then who did?"

"Pastor Jim. He came to Stanford to tell me. He knew you were very sick, thought I should be with you. He did the right thing." Sam's jaw clenched. "Dean, you could have died!"

Dean looked back at him steadily. "Yeah, but I didn't."

"That's not the point," Sam retorted. "Dad should have called me."

"I'm sure he would have, if Pastor Jim hadn't called first."

Sam snorted his disbelief.

Dean sighed. "Sam, sit down, you're giving me neck-ache."

Sam glared, but sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Anyway," Dean went on after a pause, "Why _did_ you leave?"

The mixed feelings of fear, anger and regret he'd felt at the time flooded back, and Sam's stomach clenched. He looked down at his hands. "Dad and I… we had one of our fights. I just… the doctor said you were going to be okay, so I… I left. I … I knew you'd be upset if you saw us going at it. I didn't know what else to do." What else was there to say? There was no excuse for what he'd done. He looked up then, needing to see how Dean was taking all this. "I'm sorry, Dean. I should have stayed."

He watched Dean trying to process this new information, saw a myriad of emotions pass across his face before his features settled into a neutral expression. Finally, Dean asked, "What did you fight about?"

Sam let out a long breath. "You. I blamed Dad for what happened."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I might have guessed. It wasn't his fault, Sam."

"Then whose was it? If you hadn't split up, if he hadn't broken the golden rule, you wouldn't have been on your own."

Dean looked surprised. "Sam, that rule was just for when we were kids."

That stopped Sam in his tracks. "What?"

"Dad wanted to be sure we were always watching each other's backs. After you left – come on, dude, I was twenty-two! There was no need for it any more."

As Sam silently digested Dean's words, Dean continued.

"Anyway, it was my idea to split up, not his."

Another illusion shattered. But Sam wasn't about to let his dad off the hook that easily. "It was still a mistake, and Dad was calling the shots, so it was his responsibility. And what about the ER? He should have taken you straight there after you got hurt."

Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Cut him some slack, Sam. He couldn't have known the wound would get infected so quickly."

"He shouldn't have left you," Sam went on stubbornly.

"Someone had to take down the third chupacabra before it killed again."

"Dean…"

Dean's mouth thinned in irritation. "Sam, just leave it. It was no one's fault. The job's dangerous, okay? Accidents happen."

"That's what Pastor Jim said at the time," Sam admitted. "Maybe he was right. But… I was scared, and angry, seeing you hurt… it seemed so unfair. I needed someone to blame, and Dad's always good for that, right?" He paused, smiled to take the sting out of the last statement, and after a moment got his reward in a wry grin.

"Anyway," he went on, "when I got back to school … I called you and left messages, but you never called back, and I thought …" Dean's shocked expression stopped him. "What?"

After a long moment, Dean said quietly, "I didn't get any messages. My phone broke when the chupacabra attacked me."

Sam's jaw dropped as the implications of that simple statement hit him. All this time he'd thought Dean had chosen not to return his calls when in fact, Dean had never even received them. He rubbed a hand across his face. "I… oh, hell. I thought you didn't call back because you were angry, and you had every right to be, because I should have been there for you."

"Sam, that's all kinds of stupid."

Suddenly Sam realized how stupid it was, too. Dean wasn't a man to bear grudges, especially against his little brother. "I wasn't thinking straight. I wanted to call again, but time went on and you didn't get in touch, and I thought… Why didn't you ever call me?"

Dean was silent.

"Dean?"

Dean flashed him a quick glance and then looked down, fist clenching around the sheet. "You and me - we'd been drifting apart. I… I guess I thought you'd decided to cut your ties with both of us."

Sam swallowed. All this time. All this time Dean had thought he was deliberately keeping his distance, while he'd convinced himself that it was Dean who had made that choice.

"Dean, no, I…" He stopped, unsure how to go on.

Dean took a long, measuring look at Sam, and shook his head. "Dude, did you really think I was petty enough to be pissed because you didn't stay and hold my hand?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, because really, there wasn't a good answer to that one.

Dean scoffed. "Nice." He jabbed a finger at Sam. "Don't you go pinning our problems on me, Sammy. You're the geek who chose to leave and make a life for yourself."

The anger in Dean's tone stung. "Like you made any attempt to stop me," he retorted.

Dean went still. "You think I wanted you to go?"

Sam stuck out his jaw defiantly. "You never said you wanted me to stay."

Dean looked away. "I thought it was the wrong decision, that you wouldn't be able to live a normal life… but you'd set your mind on school, and I didn't want to make it any harder." He looked back at Sam, this time steadily holding his gaze. "But I never wanted you to leave, Sam. How could you think that?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, life in the Winchester household wasn't a bed of roses back then, was it?"

Dean snorted. "And you think it's been a walk in the park these past four years? You of all people know that life on the road with Dad isn't exactly a bundle of laughs. I…"

"You what, Dean?"

"Look, I…" Dean paused, eyes darting around the room before finally coming back to settle on Sam. "I missed you, dude, okay?"

Sam's throat tightened, and he cleared it. "Every day, Dean, every day I picked up that phone and almost called."

Dean was silent for a long moment. Then his lip curled in a half smile. "We're crap at this family stuff."

"Yeah." Sam chuckled, then sobered, thinking back on the last few years. Two whole years lost because of heated accusations and a stupid misunderstanding. "Look, Dean. I can't say I'm happy with the way things have turned out, and I'd give anything to turn back time and save Jess…"

Dean was looking at him curiously, and Sam held his eyes firmly. "But I'm really glad to have my brother back."

Dean smiled. "Me, too."

**The End**


End file.
